


Juliette the Midnight Vet

by jujubiest



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dehumanization, Gen, Non-Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Wesen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juliette Silverton is a perfectly ordinary veterinarian by day. But by night, she serves as a private veterinarian to the wealthy, influential, and secretive Renard family, and their collection of strange and exotic pets.</p><p>One night one of the "pets" changes in front of her, and Juliette realizes she's been an unwitting participant in the unthinkable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stroke of Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea a while ago, and decided to write it as part of my Master's thesis. The version posted here will not be the final version published for the thesis, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on my odd little plotbunny!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juliette discovers the horrible truth about her moonlighting gig.

There’s a knock at the door, and Juliette glances up from the book she’s reading to peer at the clock. Twelve midnight, on the dot as usual. She folds down the corner of her page and sets the book aside, quickly grabbing a scarf and shrugging into a warm jacket. It gets cold at night in Portland at this time of year.

Juliette opens the door to see Lucas-and-Carter, looking imposing and serious as usual.

“Hi guys,” she says cheerfully. “Just let me get my bag! One second.” She ducks back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, and grabs her go-bag from its permanent place by the door. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she steps back outside—the door now held open for her by Lucas-or-Carter—and smiles up at them.

“Okay, ready. What’ve we got tonight?”

One of them heads wordlessly for the driver’s side of the large black sedan idling in front of her house, while the other hands her a file without speaking. She takes it, thanks him—no response, what a surprise—and begins thumbing through it as she climbs into the back seat.

The first thing in the file is a picture: a sharp close-up of an furred, animalistic face, the camera flash gleaming wetly off the long, wicked canines protruding from its gaping maw. The eyes are red, not blood-shot but _actually_ red, the irises a deep, bloody crimson that seems to almost glow. Juliette suppresses a shudder; no matter how many times she sees these photos, she never gets used to them, and they never prepare her for the reality.

She flips to the second page and begins to read. Species, blutbad. Male. Age undetermined. Six feet long. Undomesticated. The file goes into minute detail about things like the length of its teeth and claws, the condition of its fur, its dietary preferences. This particular creature is odd in that it has all the markings of a carnivore, but thus far has vomited up anything they give it that contains meat products. It also seems to resist any kind of attempts at domestication, and its owners are at their wits’ end.

Juliette’s brow furrows in confusion. She’s seen plenty of weird things since she started this gig, but this is something else. An animal with all the traditional markings of an apex predator, that displays aggression and resistance to any attempts at training…but rejects all forms of what should be its natural food source.

“God, I hope the poor thing isn’t rabid,” she murmurs. She’s had to put down one or two rabid pets at her day job, and it’s always terrible. Euthanizing people’s sick pets is easily her least favorite part of being a vet, and she’s certain that with these particular animals, it will be a thousand times worse.

By the time the car rolls to a stop and Lucas-or-Carter opens her door for her, she’s read through the entire file twice and made a mental list of things to check and tests she may need to run. She follows Lucas-and-Carter—she did actually try to ask them who was who once, but they only stared at her in silence—across the darkened expanse of lawn. Her business has never taken her inside the house itself, of which she’s glad. It’s a pretentious monstrosity of a structure, looking more like a small palace than a large house, and she would feel too underdressed to even put a foot on the stairs leading up to the front door, she’s sure of it.

Her route is familiar by now, even in the darkness. There’s a narrow path paved elegantly with pale, faintly luminescent stones that begins behind the wall of evergreens lining the main drive and leads around to the back of the house and away, towards the edge of the woods. There, nestled against the line of trees, is a small, neatly square structure set up for Juliette to do her work.

The walk isn’t a short one, and by the time they reach the building she’s huffing a little from the effort of keeping up with Lucas-and-Carter. She takes a moment to collect herself once inside, losing the scarf and jacket and depositing her go-bag on the long white countertop that runs along the wall just inside the door.

“Thanks guys, I’ve got it from here,” she says, and they leave her to her work with a nod.

Shaking her head a little, Juliette rolls up her sleeves and goes to the sink to wash up. She pulls one of the pristine white lab coats from the small wardrobe in the corner and shrugs it on over her clothes, actually bothering to button the thing all the way up, just in case there’s a mess. Finally, she pulls her hair into a ponytail and heads for the kennel, her even footsteps belying the quick beat of her heart.

It’s the kind of job that the nerves never fade from, and that’s part of what she loves about it. Her day job is routine and stable, something she enjoys and is good at but not very exciting or stimulating. Her night job is something else altogether.

Recalling the number on the file, she heads straight to the back, to the door marked 131U7134D, and opens it carefully, pausing to listen before venturing inside. The only sound is the creature’s solitary, belabored breath. She steps inside and closes the door behind her, reaches for the light and then, remembering those read eyes, thinking better of it.

Instead of the overheads she flicks on a small light near the door, bathing the room in a dim, eerie yellow glow. It just reaches the examination table in the center of the room, turning her patient into a great, hulking shadow with only a dark glimmer of burgundy-black in his eyes.

“Hello,” she says softly. “My name is Dr. Silverton.” She talks to her patients, both the nightmare creatures here and the more ordinary animals she cares for at her day job. It seems to soothe them, especially the ones who are disoriented from pain, fatigue, or fever.

Moving closer cautiously, she thinks this poor thing might be suffering from all three. He’s strapped on his back to the operating table, immobilized—for her safety and his—but not tied down so tightly that it should cause him serious discomfort. That was one of the things she had insisted on early on, when she first agreed to take this strange position. In fact, seeing how poorly the animals were cared for, how little their masters understood them or their needs, was half the reason she had signed the contract.

The other half was, she’s only a little ashamed to admit, a burning curiosity about these fantastic creatures.

“It says in your chart that you’ve shown signs of aggression, resistance to training, and are rejecting all the food they try to feed you. So you’re either sick, or incurably wild, or both. Let’s see if we can figure out what’s wrong, okay?”

The creature makes no reply, of course…but its tensed body relaxes just a fraction, and she smiles.

“That’s good,” she murmurs. “Now, let’s unstrap this foreleg so I can get a better look at your claws and pads, and see if there are any signs of serious malnutrition in those claw beds.”

She works as she talks, pulling out a small pin light and slipping it into her coat pocket, approaching the examination table and gently, carefully unstrapping the foreleg nearest her. She pauses to smile reassuringly at the beast, willing herself not to flinch from its red eyes—and immediately realizes her mistake.

The moment the foreleg is free, her wrist is closed in a vice grip, and with a single pull she’s thrown off balance and against the creature’s furred body, arm pinning her in place and clawed hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her scream into nothing.

It makes a hissing noise that sounds nauseatingly like a human saying “shhhhhh.” A human with inch-long canines, that is. She goes still and boneless, and the unequal distribution of weight is too much for its arm and the examination table; she slumps from the creature’s grasp and rolls away as the table comes crashing onto its side. She fetches up against the wall, cracking her head painfully on the painted cinderblock. Her vision blurs, and before she can regain her bearings she hears a ripping noise that can only be the sound of restraints being shredded by those deadly claws on the beast’s free hand.

Suddenly, the twenty-page liability release packet she was required to read, initial, and sign makes perfect, ringing sense. Juliette squints, trying to force her vision into focus, and groans when she’s rewarded only with a dull throbbing through her temples.

 _I’m going to die here,_ she thinks muzzily. _That thing is going to tear me apart._ She wonders if it will throw her up afterward, or if what it really detested was being given food. Perhaps it needed the satisfaction of making the kill.

“No,” she mumbles, nonsensically, as she sees the blurry, hulking shadow of the creature loom over her. “No,” she says again, louder this time, panicked, begging. “Please!”

Its hot, rank breath hits her in the face. She closes her eyes tight, blood pounding painfully in her ears.

“Shhh,” it breathes again, sounding even more human now. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Juliette’s eyes snap open and meet not red, but deep, liquid brown. The face they belong to is that of a man, a very tall, very naked man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, looking down at her with concern furrowing the brow beneath his dark mess of shaggy curls.

Juliette scrambles to her feet, prompting the man to jump back, almost defensively. She doesn’t have space in her brain to think of this as odd, even though he’s head and shoulders taller than her. She’s too busy looking around frantically, searching in vain for the monster that she was sure was about to eat her only seconds before.

“Where is it?” She asks finally, trying to keep the panic in her voice to a manageable level. Quite aside from ending her contract permanently, letting that creature loose could put a lot of people in danger.

“Where’s what?” He says. She rounds on him, her panic overtaking her ability to stay calm.

“Where is the _thing_ that just nearly ate my face off!?”

“Thing? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think? And euck…human faces. No thanks. I’m vegan.”

“You—wh…what?”

“I _said,_ ” he says, putting entirely unnecessary levels of sarcastic emphasis on the second word, “I’m _vegan._ I don’t consume animal products? Unless you count local honey, which I consider vegan-friendly…though there’s a lot of debate on the subject in the vegan communi—“

“Wait, no, stop…shut up. _What_?” Juliette’s brain tries and fails to come to the obvious conclusion. It’s simply not possible.

Then again, she’s spent the last eleven months of her life seeing impossible things every single night.

“Oh god.” She reaches behind her, hand groping for the light. “I’m…gonna be sick.”

“Hey,” he says, sounding genuinely offended. “You’re no prize yourself, you know.”

She just looks at him for a second, taking in the human face, the human eyes— _their eyes have always looked a little too human._

 _Oh_ god.

There’s a trash can in the corner. She empties her stomach into it.

“Oh, jeez,” the man behind her says, sounding contrite. “I’m sorry…here. Let me—“ he starts rummaging in the supply cupboard, and comes up with a plastic cup, looking triumphant.

“Sink?”

She gestures feebly toward the door, waving in the direction of the hallway. Her mind is whirling, trying to make sense of the situation. The man disappears for about a minute and then returns with one of her lab coats wrapped lopsidedly around his hips. He offers her the cup, now filled with cold, clear water. She drinks it down in one gulp, appreciating the soothing coolness against her raw throat immensely. She settles against the wall with a sigh, wishing for a toothbrush.

“So...” the man says, adjusting his makeshift lab skirt a bit for better coverage. “Uh…what now?”

“What now?”

“Well…I guess somebody must’ve heard that commotion and they’ll be sending people to rescue you from me sooner or later, right? So…you gonna let them tie me back down?”

She smiles weakly. “Actually, this whole place is soundproofed, and isolated enough from the main house that even if it weren’t, nobody will have heard a thing. That’s how Mr. Renard—my employer—prefers it.”

“Well yeah, but they’ve gotta have cameras—“ But Juliette is already shaking her head no.

“The Renards are a very old, very high-profile family. They didn’t want even the possibility of any evidence of their,” her throat nearly closes on the word, “ _pets_ getting out. So there is no evidence.”

“Pets,” the man spits. “Is _that_ was they were trying to do?”

Juliette can’t even meet his eyes. “Yes. And I was helping them.”

She can feel him looking at her, but she doesn’t look up.

“Well,” he says finally. “I get the feeling, from your reaction and all, that you didn’t actually know what you were doing.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it better. I just feel stupid on top of terrible. And I have no idea what to do now…”

He’s silent for a long minute, then he joins her on the floor. His movements are slow, and careful, as though he’s the vet and she’s a skittish animal, likely to bite or bolt at any second.

That’s how she feels: trapped, paralyzed beneath her horror.

“What happens to you if one of their _pets_ gets loose?”

Juliette laughs harshly. “Nothing, really. I mean, unless I get mauled or murdered. I’m on my own once I walk through that door, that was the arrangement. Other than that, I tell no one, continue my day job, behave exactly as usual, collect my payments in cash, and spend or save them the same way—no banks, ever. If I screw up or tell anyone they can fire me or sue me…or both. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Renard knows plenty of ways to make a person disappear.”

“And you _chose_ to work for these people?”

“It was the job of a lifetime,” she says sadly. “The chance to treat animals no one has ever treated, or even _seen_ before.” She looks at him apologetically. “I really had no idea.”

“I believe you. So…what now?”

She looks at him for a long moment, still trying to wrap her brain around this surreal night. Less than an hour ago, she was doing a routine checkup on one of her boss’s new, exotic pets. Now she’s staring at one of those “pets” in the face and realizing that she’s been an unwitting accomplice to human trafficking and slavery, fighting nausea, and having a strangely polite conversation with one of her accidental victims.

Somewhere below the horror, a spark of anger ignites.

“What’s your name?” She asks. He blinks at the non sequitur.

“It’s…Monroe.”

“Okay Monroe,” she says, climbing to her feet. “Now, we’re going to get you out of here.”


	2. Wesen With My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monroe and Juliette hatch a plan to get him out safely, but it may put Juliette in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a lot of bleeding and talk/thoughts about blood.

A slow and, for lack of a better word, _wolfy_ grin spreads across Monroe’s face.

“Sounds like a grand idea to me. Do you have some sort of a plan?”

Juliette looks around the room: the overturned table doesn’t quite do the chaos of its overturning justice, but it gives her an idea.

“Any chance you can tear those straps?”

The grin widens. “You betcha,” he says, and goes to it with gusto. Juliette turns her attention to the counter, and the cabinets. There are a few things in her go-bag she’ll need as well.

First, she sets up a tray of instruments—nothing fancy, just a syringe filled with sedative, her pin light, digital thermometer, a blood collection kit, and a tongue depressor. She wheels the little tray to the spot it would need to be in order to be at hand for a routine exam, and then turns to see that Monroe has long since finished his mauling of the table and is watching her with a mix of curiosity and slight apprehension.

She smiles, hoping it looks more reassuring than nervous.

“Okay, now comes the difficult part.” His eyes go to the syringe, and he doesn’t tense but she _feels_ the shift in his mood. He’s suspicious of her. This could all be a very clever ruse, after all…lull him into a false sense of security and then knock him out and call in Renard’s cronies for an assist.

She can’t exactly blame him, considering _._

“First,” she says, “I’m going to need some…uh…claw marks.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re going to need some what?”

“Claw marks,” she repeats, grimly determined not to show how nervous she is. Obviously being a vet she’s had her fair share of scrapes and scratches, and even a dog bite once. And blood doesn’t bother her. But she’s not a big fan of pain, especially when she knows it’s coming. It’s definitely not something she normally volunteers to experience.

Monroe looks horrified. “You want me to…is that really necessary?”

“Yes. It has to look good. Like you tore through the straps, attacked me, and escaped on your own. If they suspect I helped, they’ll…probably do something pretty awful. I’m just guessing, but if they have no problem with a people zoo I doubt there’s much they wouldn’t stoop to. But if I get attacked? That’s a different story. If the massive liability release agreement I signed is any indication, they actually expect it.”

“Good point,” Monroe concedes, though he doesn’t look any happier with the idea. “Okay…so…claw marks. Any…uh…” He waves a hand in her general direction and sheepish. “Specifications?”

Her stomach is tying itself in knots. This is going to hurt. “A head wound. Those bleed a lot. And maybe something smaller on my arms or torso. Make it look like you grabbed or shoved me with your claws out. They need to be deep enough to bleed convincingly, but not so deep I’m going to bleed out or lose consciousness before someone finds me—“

“Okay, okay, woah,” Monroe holds up his hands, currently sans claws. “I think got the concept. Jeez, lady. You have a dark mind.”

“I watch a lot of crime procedurals. Now can we get this over with?”

“Hey, I’m not exactly looking forward to this, alright? I haven’t…it’s been a long time since I attacked anyone, or anything. I’m generally a pretty peaceful guy!”

“Yes, well, I’m secretly a mid-level warlord who just can’t _wait_ to have the wolf man use my face for a scratching post.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” he says, glowering.

Juliette is running out of patience. She understands his reluctance, is even somewhat reassured by it…but they really don’t have time for it right now. So she’s perhaps a little snippier than strictly necessary.

“Look,” she says. “Here’s the scene I need to set: overturned table, tray knocked over, supplies scattered everywhere...me on the floor looking bloody and pitiful, my key-card missing, and you gone.”

He looks at her for a long, loaded moment.

“Fine,” he says finally. “Okay. It’s a good plan. I just don’t like it.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” she says with a wry smile, “I like you more for not liking it.”

He returns the smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The apprehension is gone, but it’s been replaced by a shadow of preemptive guilt. He’s going to beat himself up for this later, even though he has no reason to, even though this is the only way to make sure they’re both safe.

“First thing’s first,” she says, moving around the wrecked exam table and the tray of instruments. She considers for a moment, and then chooses her angle carefully before grabbing the edge of the tray and pulling it over. It clatters loudly to the floor, scattering her tools left and right and making her wince. She sees Monroe flinch out of the corner of her eye.

“Okay, good. Now.” She turns to him and holds out her key card, looking up at him solemnly. “This opens both exits. Use the one in the back, down the hall to the right; it opens into the woods. I can’t guarantee no one will be watching or waiting out there…but it’s your best shot.”

He nods, not speaking, the trepidation growing in his eyes. She leaves the card in his hand and backs away, bracing herself against the cement block wall. “You need to move fast. Get as far away as you can. Are you any good with cardinal directions without a compass?”

He nods again.

“Good.  The highway should be to the west. If you can hitch a ride, do. I don’t know if you can go home…they might look for you there.”

“They found me while I was…hiking,” Monroe says. “So maybe not.”

“In any case, be careful. And like I said, move fast. I can’t give you much time, but I’ll give you as much as I can without rousing suspicion.”

Monroe closes his hand around the card, and swallows. “I can’t begin to thank you, Juliette.”

“Don’t,” she says harshly. “I don’t deserve it. This isn’t a good deed; it’s penance for my own stupidity.”

He looks like he wants to protest, but she doesn’t have time for that now. If she dreads this any longer, she’s going to lose her nerve completely.

“It’s gonna look really bad,” she warns. “But you need to do it and then go. Don’t stick around to worry over me. I’ll be fine.”

Self-preservation must win the day, because he doesn’t argue anymore, just clenches his jaw tight and unfurls his empty hand. She expects claws, a shift from the man to the beast she saw before...but nothing that she can see changes. She can feel the difference all the same, a prickle along her scalp that tells her there’s something more than an ordinary man in front of her. His eyes almost seem to glow red. She closes hers and braces herself, breathing hard through her nose.

She doesn’t even hear him move, but she feels it: displaced air, and then a sudden, sharp stinging sensation down the side of her face, across her left shoulder, following by a rush of wet, sticky warmth. She hears her lab coat tear, and she slides gracelessly down the wall, in a strange haze. It almost feels like a bad itch, not nearly the level of agony she expected. _The body’s shock response: everything’s going numb._

Unfortunately it doesn’t last long. The itching, unpleasant tingling sensation is being chased across her skin and away from the open wounds, by _pain._ Real pain. Hot and deep, sharp-stinging, aggravated by the blood running down her face and chest in what feels like a torrent.

 _No, that’s good,_ she tells her panicking brain. _That’s good. That’s what I need._

Head wounds bleed like crazy even when they’re not that serious. This isn’t that serious, but it will look like hell.

She feels him leaning over her and wants to scream at him, _no, I said to leave!_ But she can’t ungrit her teeth enough to do anything but half-groan, half-hiss at him. She’s afraid to open her eyes; there’s blood running down over one of them, slowly gluing it shut.

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly, and then she feels him go. She waits, barely breathing, as she hears him retreat out the door and down the hall, listening for the sound of the heavy metal door shutting behind him. Then, there’s silence.

No one comes running. No shouts. Nothing. Either Monroe’s escape went unobserved, or they were more worried about catching him than checking on her. She reckons the odds are 60/40 in favor of the latter.

Her face begins to throb, on top of stinging. She wishes she’d told him to just knock her all the way out, but she also knows that losing consciousness would be dangerous when she’s bleeding like this.

Juliette counts out five minutes in her head, staying acutely aware of her state of mind and level of consciousness the whole time. The bleed has slowed, at least. Clearly Monroe knew what he was doing. She’s not sure if she should be glad about that, or find it horrifying.

Typically these “house calls” take two hours, tops. Which means she has an unfortunately long stretch of time before they get suspicious and come to see what’s taking so long. She touches two tentative fingers to her brow, and forces her right eye—the left is stuck shut with drying blood—open to examine them. Then she does the same to her shoulder.

The blood feels tacky on her fingertips, her body already forming its stopgap measure against fatal blood-loss. There are no wounds below her shoulder; Monroe shredded her lab coat all the way down, but he didn’t get anything underneath—by design, she thinks. She still looks grisly, the blood from her shoulder and head having run all the way down the front of her coat, making her look much worse off than she really is.

There’s no worry about bleeding out accidentally. She might be concerned about infection if she were staying too long, but the place is relatively sterile and she wants to give Monroe as much time as possible to get away.

Closing her eyes against the constant, biting ache down the left side of her body, she resigns herself to a long wait.

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to wait that long at all. Barely ten minutes after she closes her eyes, Juliette hears the distinctive tone of the key-card reader, the snick of the lock retracting, and the opening of a door. It sounds as though it’s coming from the front entrance.

“Miss Silverton?”

The voice is unfamiliar, masculine, and genteel but uncertain. She doesn’t make a sound, just remains slumped against the wall with her eyes closed. Now, every second counts. She wanted to give Monroe an hour, and it’s barely been fifteen minutes.

“Miss Silverton…” the voice repeats, coming closer. She hears the door shut again and footsteps, muted tapping on the linoleum. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I wanted to see how our latest acquisition is—my god.”

He’s found her. She doesn’t move an inch, keeps her breathing shallow. He rushes over, but doesn’t touch her, thankfully. She’s not sure she could keep playing unconscious if he did.

She feels him hovering, though, likely fluttering his hands in the air, uncertain whether to touch or not.

Finally, two very cool, careful fingers are pressed to the right side of her neck, over her pulse. After a moment, a sigh of relief gusts across her face, stirring the side of her hair that isn’t matted together with blood.

“Good. Miss Silverton…I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to right this table and try to get you on it.”

Nope. Time to wake up. Juliette lets out a small sound, pitiful even to her own ears. She barely opens one eye.

“What—ahh—happened?” She doesn’t have to work that hard to sound half-conscious and in pain; the throbbing is so bad she can practically _hear_ it at this point.

Another sigh of relief.

“You’re awake…that’s good. Can you move at all?”

“Of—of course I—“ her words break off in a hiss as she tries to pull herself to her feet, but she makes it all the way up with the help of her mysterious “rescuer’s” arm. He’s not a very tall man, perhaps an inch taller than her, and he seems to struggle a bit to help support her weight with his own slim, narrow-shouldered frame. But he does get her there all the same, propping her carefully up against the counter and then looking more closely at her wound, his dark eyes full of concern.

“Thank you,” she says weakly, eager to distract him from taking too close a look at the extent—or lack of extent—of her injuries. “Where am I? What happened?” Loss of place is a sign of disorientation.

Juliette feels strange, like she’s operating on two different levels: the surface displaying this picture of a helpless, injured woman, and her internal monologue steadily streaming the appropriate list of symptoms and responses for a victim of head trauma and severe blood loss.

“It appears one of our new acquisitions got loose and attacked you,” says the man, with a light hint of disgust in his voice at the word ‘acquisitions’ that she can’t quite interpret. “Do you remember anything?”

“I…” She shakes her head, then stifles a cry; she’ll think better of doing that again for a while. “Lucas and Carter brought me here as usual, and then they left and I went to see the new…creature.” Even now it’s hard to keep the revulsion out of her voice. She hopes he’ll put it down to pain and horror at what he thinks just happened.

“It seemed docile enough at first, but when I went to take a blood sample, it started thrashing. I tried to sedate it, but it tore loose from the straps and came after me. It was massive…a monster.” She shudders; however kind he had been after, in that moment before she knew the truth, Juliette had been certain she was going to die.

“It came at me with its claws. It cornered me…there was nowhere to run.” She allows the slightest catch in her voice. “I closed my eyes…I thought I was dead. Then all I remember is…pain. I think I must have passed out from it.”

To her own ears she sounds ridiculous, but the man seems to believe her completely.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Silverton. This should never have happened.” He looks so earnestly apologetic. She wonders if he knows the truth. He’s not a Renard. He may just be a dupe, like she was.

“Please,” he says, just before the silence stretches into awkwardness. “Can you walk? I want you to come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up, and if necessary, to a doctor.”

 _If necessary._ Meaning if she’s not in immediate danger of death or sepsis, no hospitals. She figured as much, but her face seems to throb harder in her disappointment. She would not mind some heavy-duty, emergency room-grade local anesthetic right about now.

“Thank you—“ She stops, not knowing how to continue.

“Sebastien,” he supplies. “Sebastien Laurent. Low-ranking member of the entourage of The Family Renard.” He pronounces each of the French words—borrowed words as well as names—perfectly, a slightly heavier accent to them than to the rest of his speech. And on the name _Renard,_ just the slightest hint of irony, a light mockery that she enjoys far too much. She focuses on this pleasant detail, rather than the pain in her face.

“Thank you, Sebastien,” she says in a soft, strained voice, attempting half a smile. He merely nods and wraps an arm around her back, helping her out of the clinic and guiding her carefully across the darkened grounds, toward the house.


	3. Royal Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juliette gets acquainted with Sebastien...and meets two other members of the Renard household in the process.

By the time they reach the front door, Juliette is putting most of her weight on poor Sebastien’s shoulders. The grounds are large, the clinic is set as far back from the house as possible, and between the pain, the blood loss, and the adrenaline roller coaster her body just went on, Juliette is exhausted.

Sebastien, bless him, doesn’t complain. He just soldiers on, helping her around to a side entrance—not as grand as the front, with its shining mahogany double doors and pristinely white stone steps, but it’s private and unfussy, and Juliette is grateful. The Renards strike her as the type of family who have a butler and “receive” their pre-announced guests, and she doesn’t feel up to announcement or reception at the moment.

They slip in through the door and down a short hallway, turning into the first door they come to. It’s a kitchen, but not in the ordinary sense of the word. This looks like something out of a fairy tale. The room is large, with a dark wood countertop running the entire length of the walls and shelves and cabinets underneath all the way around. There are gleaming pots, pans, and various other culinary instruments hanging in neat rows by hooks on the wall, or on bars suspended from the ceiling. A table with a bench seat on either side divides the room, decorated simply with a vase full of large yellow sunflowers. The exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, in addition to holding up cooking utensils, are hung with long ropes of garlic and bunches of drying herbs.

There’s an archway on the far side of the room, through which Juliette can see a large oven and stovetop. There’s a blender on the counter in one corner, and a waffle iron in another. An espresso machine takes up the third. All the appliances are modern and top-of-the-line, but they look young and silly, out of both place and time in their old, traditionalist surroundings.

“It’s one of my favorite rooms in this house,” Sebastien says, following her gaze as she takes it all in. He helps her onto one of the benches and heads for the arched-off area with the stove. She hears things being shuffled around and water running. In a moment he’s back, with his jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up, carrying a steaming metal bowl and a fluffy white towel draped over one shoulder.

He places the bowl on the table and straddles the bench beside her. The bowl is full of a clear, pale amber liquid and smells pungent and herby. He dips the corner of the white towel into the bowl, and turns her face carefully with one hand, so that the cut above her eye is facing him.

“Hold still now,” he says gently, and then begins cleaning her cut. She winces; the amber liquid stings a bit at first, and her skin is sore to the touch, like a live bruise. But almost immediately, the stinging subsides into a lovely lukewarm numbness. She lets out a sigh of relief.

“An old family recipe,” he explains. “It disinfects, numbs the pain, and promotes healing. My mother had an herb for everything.”

“My compliments to your mother,” she says. “That’s quite an herb.”

Sebastien graces her with a brilliant flash of a smile. He finishes cleaning the wound, then leaves her for a moment to go dump the water—now a dark orange-pink—and dispose of the towel. When he comes back, he’s holding another, clean cloth and carrying another bowl, this time full of what appears to be clear, plain water.

“Now let’s get the rest of that blood off you, and then we can find you a clean set of clothes.”

Juliette tries to protest that she can just go home to change, but Sebastien is hearing nothing of it. In a few minutes, he has carefully cleaned the blood from her face, neck, and hair, bandaged the wound on her forehead, and then he leads her back out into the little hall and up a narrow stairwell.

“These old houses are always built so that the servants’ comings and goings are as segregated as possible from the owners’, except when they’re actually serving. Archaic and elitist, but it makes it much easier to come and go without having to present oneself to every member of the household one comes across.”

Juliette laughs lightly, then winces as the motion pulls at the cuts on her face.

“You know, I can’t tell whether you like the family or not,” she says. He half-turns to grace her with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

“I like some of them very well. Others, I could live without.”

“I guess that’s how it is with every family,” she says. Sebastien makes a non-committal noise at that and ushers her through a dark wooden door, into what appears to have once been used as servants’ quarters. He heads to a tall wardrobe and pulls it open, rifling through the neatly-hung clothes. He pulls out a pair of dark pants and a white silk top. He considers Juliette briefly and then offers her the clothes. She takes them, a bit embarrassed.

“Thank you,” she says meekly. He nods.

“I’ll give you some privacy.” And then he’s gone.

Juliette carefully peels her way out of her clothes, grimacing at the way the fabric has gone stiff and tacky with blood. She carefully folds them so the blood is all wrapped in the center, and sets it carefully on a chair before pulling the pants and shirt on. She surveys herself in the small, rectangular mirror on the wall, attempting to arrange the slightly damp front of her hair.

A knock at the door startles her.

“Ms. Silverton? I apologize, but I should have Lucas and Carter take you home soon.”

“Of course,” she calls. “I’m ready to go now.”

She steps back into the hall, her clothes bundled under one arm, to find Sebastien standing against the opposite wall and waiting patiently. When he sees her emerge, he holds out his hand.

“Shall I have your clothes dry-cleaned?”

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Don’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure they’re beyond salvage.”

“I’d be happy to dispose of them for you as well.”

Juliette considers for a moment, then hands them over.

“Thank you,” he says, inclining his head. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” She lets him lead the way, following him at a distance and considering the sudden change in his demeanor. Downstairs he had been warm, kind, and candid. Now, it’s as if a door has shut behind his eyes.

She doesn’t comment on the change, simply follows him down the stairs and back out the side door. He leads her across the darkened lawn, seemingly having no trouble walking through the near-complete darkness. Juliette struggles to keep up, until finally they make it into the golden circle of light bathing the front of the lawn. The black sedan is waiting. As are two people Juliette hasn’t seen before.

The first is a petite yet imposing blonde woman. At her side is a tall, broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and flinty eyes. Juliette can’t help but linger on the hard line of his jaw, the arrogant twist to the line of his mouth. As they approach, his eyes land on her and she feels them like fire rushing up her spine. She sucks in a breath, and shifts her eyes back to the woman.

Looking at her is no better, it turns out. Her gaze is appraising, but it isn’t fixed on Juliette. Instead, she’s looking at Sebastien as though she has questions and resents the presence of an outsider forcing her to hold her tongue.

“Good evening,” she says. “I see we have a guest?”

“This is Juliette Silverton,” Sebastien says, gesturing toward her and sounding supremely reluctant. “She is—“

“The veterinarian in our employ?” Kenneth interrupts, stepping forward. He holds out his hand, and Juliette takes it reluctantly, blushing to the roots of her hair when he raises it to his lips with an amused smirk.

“Yes,” Sebastien says, sounding disapproving. “Her…patient…escaped his bindings and attacked her. I brought her to the house to get cleaned up, and was about to hand her off to Lucas and Carter for transport home.”

Juliette tries to be too dignified to bristle at being spoken of like inconvenient cargo, but she feels the tall man’s amusement as he releases her hand.

“Well then,” says the woman, “please don’t allow us to keep you.” She nods courteously enough, but Juliette recognizes the dismissal for what it is.

Sebastien guides her into the sedan, nodding at Lucas and Carter. They start driving almost before the door is closed, and before long they’re out of sight of the house. Juliette swears she can feel the eyes of all three of them on her until the lights of the house fade completely from her sight.


	4. A Wolf at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safely back home, Juliette finds pancakes, a new friend, a mysterious ally, and a tentative sense of purpose.

The ride across town to her house is unusually quiet. Not that Lucas-and-Carter are ever chatterers, but Juliette usually keeps up a steady stream of thinking out loud on the way home. She likes to muse over her latest patient on the ride home, mostly because these two are the only people she could ever tell.

Tonight she’s as silent as they are, her mind a whirl of confusion and worry over what the last few hours have wrought, and what havoc they might continue to wreak in her life.

Because now that she knows the truth, Juliette can’t go on as she did before. She can’t keep working for the Renards knowing what kind of people they are and what they do…but she can’t just quit and leave the rest of their prisoners to their fate, either. And to top it all off, she can’t stop worrying about Monroe. She hopes he got away.

At long last the big black sedan pulls into her driveway, and she jumps out without a word and heads up to the front door. If Lucas-and-Carter notice her uncharacteristic rudeness, they don’t comment on it—surprise of all surprises.

She lets herself in and shuts the door firmly behind her, leaning against it in exhaustion and waiting for the lights to disappear. She feels herself slowly relax as the light bleeds from her front yard and leaves the living room in total darkness.

Her relief doesn’t last long, however. No sooner has the car disappeared than there is a loud knock at the door. Juliette jumps, then chastises herself and turns to look through the peephole—uncharacteristically cautious as well as quiet tonight, it seems.

What she sees prompts her to yank the door open. Standing on her front stoop is Monroe.

“Long time no see,” he quips, looking relieved. She doesn’t deign to respond, just ushers him into the house quickly and, checking for prying eyes in the dark streets, shuts and locks the door behind him.

“What are you _doing_ here?” She hisses. He looks a little taken aback by her tone.

“I was worried! I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says tersely. “You can go now.”

She reaches for the door, but he stops her with a big hand on her shoulder, turning her towards him.

“Hey,” he says uncertainty. “I may be overstepping my bounds here, but you don’t look fine to me. Like, at all.”

Juliette sags under his hand, face collapsing into lines of stress and tension.

“I’m not,” she admits softly. “I’m really, really not.”

“Okay,” Monroe says, voice gentle. “Honesty, that’s good. I can work with that. Let’s get you something to eat and a cup of tea and we’ll hash it all out. Where’s your kitchen?”

For some reason, Juliette actually leads him to the kitchen. She perches on the counter, leaning heavily against one of the brightly-painted cabinets and watching with a sense of unreality as a strange man she met barely hours ago moves around her space, opening fridge and drawers and cupboards in search of supplies for making her a very late dinner...or early breakfast.

She’s never had a man in this kitchen before, unless you counted her younger brother, Jesse…and he’s barely 19 so she’s not sure she counts him. Her uncle has never come to visit, and she’s never had a guy stay over and make her breakfast, despite having gone out with some very sweet guys who undoubtedly would be the type.

 _Now here I am watching the wolfman make me waffles,_ she thinks, somewhere between giddiness and despair.

“I’ll have to know I am not the wolfman,” Monroe tosses genially over his shoulder. “I’m not a _wolf,_ I’m a _blutbad,_ and I’m hardly the only one there is. Also, I hope you like pancakes, because you don’t actually own a waffle iron.”

Juliette blushes to the roots of her hair. She didn’t even realize she had spoken aloud. But Monroe doesn’t turn around to see, he just heads back toward her dining room with a plate in one hand, calling back over his shoulder:

“Come and get it while it’s hot!”

She slides off the counter onto wobbly legs, steadying herself against the counter with one hand before following. On the table is a plate loaded with a short stack of pancakes, some scrambled eggs with cheese melted in, topped with tomatoes, and a pile of bacon. It smells amazing, and Juliette finds abruptly that she’s positively starving.

“Eat up,” Monroe says, pulling out a chair for her. “I’ll be right back with the tea.”

She digs into the pancakes first, and realizes with the first bite that these are _actual_ pancakes…not the biscuit-mix imitations she usually makes. These taste almost as good as her mom’s. By the time Monroe arrives with her tea, she’s almost demolished the entire stack.

“I take it you like pancakes,” he observes wryly.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” She asks, graciously ignoring his implied judgment of her gluttony. The pancakes are _that good._

“Nah,” he says. “I’m good, for now. So…you eat. I’ll talk. And then you can tell me what happened after I left.”

She just nods around a mouthful of bacon.

“Okay,” he sighs. “So…first of all, I’m sorry about that,” he gestures at the bandage on her forehead. “I hate that I did that, even if you sort of _told_ me to. I hope it won’t scar or anything.”

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, between bites. “One of the people at the house, they found me and cleaned me up. They don’t even hurt anymore.”

“Good,” he says, but he still looks ashamed. “I was worried. I ran, like you told me to. Made my way to the highway without picking up any pursuers. I figured by that point I was safe enough—if they ventured out that far I’d hear them coming a mile away, and I could high-tail it up the road faster than they could follow me, maybe even hitch a ride with someone. But I wanted to make sure you got out okay, too.

His eyes drop to his hands.

“I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me, what you did back there,” he says, his voice low and strained with emotion.

Juliette feels her face warm, and takes a sip of her tea to cover. She wants to say it was nothing, but the look on his face tells her otherwise. Strangely, it angers her. It _should_ be nothing. A person’s freedom ought to be a matter of course, not a _gift_ given by some unwitting stranger.

“I waited out there for a while,” he continues after a moment, “and then I finally saw the car go by with you in it…so I followed you back here.”

“Wait,” she coughs, choking a little on her tea, “you _followed—_?”

He grins…wolfishly, there’s really no other word for it.

“I run fast,” he says modestly. Juliette shakes her head.

“And that’s how you came to be knocking on my door at three in the morning.”

“Bingo.” He flashes that wolfish grin once more. “So. What happened after I left?”

“Like I told you, someone from the house came and found me. It wasn’t even that long after you left, and I was worried they’d caught you. But he didn’t mention you, he just took me up to the house and cleaned me up, and then on the way out we ran into some of the family—“

Monroe sucks in a breath. “Which _ones_?”

“I…I’m not sure. A woman…maybe late 40s, blonde, blue-eyed. Very beautiful, but—“

“A bit cold?” Monroe nods. “Yeah, that’s Elizabeth Lascelles.”

“Who? And…how do you know this?”

Monroe leans forward eagerly, clearly ready to tell her the whole sordid story.

“The Renards are actually pretty well-known among Wesen circles, for obvious reasons. Know your enemy, and all that. They’re the stuff of legend—or, well, scary stories, at least. Everybody knows there are two Queens in the Renard household. One is Mary Bowes-Lyon Renard, but the other one is Elizabeth Lascelles. She’s Frederick Renard’s mistress.”

“His mistress lives with him… _and_ his wife? In the same house.” Juliette can feel her eyes bugging out a little. That sounds like the most awkward family dinner known to man.

“Tell me about it,” he says, as though he can hear her thoughts. “Some people call Elizabeth the “good” Queen, but I don’t buy it. She’s as crooked as the rest of them, probably, even if she is one of us.”

“One of _you?_ You mean she’s a blutbad?”

Monroe snorts.

“God no! She’s Wesen, but she’s not a blutbad, not by a long shot. She’s something even most other Wesen try to avoid…they’re dangerous. Unpredictable.”

“What is she?” Juliette breathes.

“A hexenbiest,” Monroe says, voice almost a whisper. “Basically the wicked witch…if the wicked witch was also part meta-zombie. They’re terrifying.” He shudders. “Elizabeth Lascelles lives comfortably in a house full of people who keep her own kind as pets, so that should tell you a little bit about what kind of atrocities she’s capable of.”

Juliette has to admit, he makes an excellent point. Still, when she’d met Elizabeth the woman had seemed…cold, yes, but also quietly compelling. Juliette had felt drawn to her, though she couldn’t say why.

“Then there are the three princes.”

“Oh,” Juliette says. “I think maybe I met one of those, too. When we ran into Elizabeth, she was with a younger man. Her son, maybe? Does she have a son?”

“She does,” Monroe says. “Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair?”

“Huh, no. Close, but no. Tall, yes, broad-shoulders, yes. But he was kind of a sandy dark blonde.”

“Oh god,” Monroe sounds horrified. “You met _Kenneth._ ”

“I take it he’s not your favorite person?”

“Kenneth,” Monroe says darkly, “is the Renard family’s attack dog…if you’ll pardon the expression. Elizabeth’s son may be illegitimate, but Kenneth is a _real_ bastard. He’s not even Frederick’s son. He’s a cousin from Mary’s side, and that whole family is a little twisted. But he’s the worst of the bunch. He _enjoys_ hurting people.”

Juliette shivers involuntarily. “I’m glad I didn’t stick around,” she says.

“You and me both. Kenneth is the type who would have a jolly old time tying both of us to the rafters to use as piñatas.”

“ _Okay,_ ” Juliette says. “I get the point. No more details, please.”

“Sorry,” Monroe says, sounding sheepish. “But seriously, it’s a good thing you got out of there when you did. They won’t like it when you quit, but they probably won’t do anything about it as long as you keep up your end of the non-disclosure agreement.”

Juliette carefully sets her teacup aside.

“Quit? Monroe…I’m not going to quit.”

He just stares at her for a second.

“You’re—“

“I’m not quitting. I can’t, not now that I know the truth.”

For a second he looks hurt and horrified, as though he thinks she’s accepted that her true job is doctoring enslaved people, and moved on from that fact in the space of a few hours. Then, slowly, something about the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes filters through to him, and the hurt disappears as the horror deepens.

“You can _not_ be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably,” she agrees. “Still serious.”

“If they find out—“

“They won’t, if I know what I’m doing.”

“You _don’t!_ ” He bursts out. “Just a few hours ago you had no idea what was really going on! You don’t have a clue how powerful these people really are, or how big this world you’re messing with is!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, feeling strangely calm in the face of this onslaught, calm for the first time that night now that her mind is made up. “They used me, which in itself I could probably let go. But what they used me _for_? That is unforgivable. And I can’t know that something like that is going on all around me, right under my nose, and not try to stop it.”

“And how exactly do you expect to stop it? You can’t even tell what we are unless we choose to show you! You’re a tiny little veterinarian with delusions of heroic grandeur! You’ll get yourself killed.”

Juliette pauses for a moment, considering. He has a point. Then again…

“You could help me,” she ventures carefully.

“Help you commit suicide-by-royal? Yeah, no thanks,” he snarks. “They may have let tonight go, but how many more of these little rescues do you think you’ll be able to pull before someone goes ‘gee, I wonder whether our vet might be letting the dogs out of their cages on purpose?’ I’ll tell you how many…one, maybe. If you’re really lucky.”

“But what if,” Juliette says slowly, a plan forming in her mind as she speaks. “What if I didn’t do it that way? At least not at first? Believe me…I’d like to be able to get every one of those people out of there, but I’m not stupid. I know that would raise suspicion. But what if I could at least stop them from adding any _more_ people to their gross little menagerie?”

“How?” Monroe asks truculently.

“I don’t know…by paying attention? Keeping an ear to the ground? Usually I get a few days’ heads up before I’m called in…that should let us know they’re bringing someone new in, right? If we could find out _who,_ get to them _before_ the royals do…”

“There’s no way, Juliette,” Monroe interrupts. He looks sad, resigned. She hates it. “Nobody ever _knows_ when they’re coming. You just wake up one morning and realize one of your friends is gone. They never come back, and after a while, you accept what must have happened.”

She hates the defeat in his voice, the echoing tone of _remembering._ She reaches a hand across the table and lays it lightly on his arm, trying to convey through touch a level of sympathy that would just sound hollow if she tried to put it into words. He covers her fingers with his other hand and smiles ruefully up at her from under the fall of curls on his forehead.

“I had these three friends. Rolf, Hap, and Angelina. They were…kind of a rough crowd sometimes. Did a lot of things I didn’t agree with…but I loved ‘em, you know? Like they were my own brothers and sister.  
“Last year, Rolf disappeared. Then six months later, Hap. Angelina was the last one, and she hid out for a while. Moving from place to place, looking over her shoulder…she was terrified, and that woman wasn’t afraid of _anything._

 _“_ The night before she disappeared, she called me. Told me she’d made her peace with it. Maybe if she was lucky they’d put her somewhere she could be near her brothers. I told her to stay put and tell me where she was, that I was coming to get her. But when I got there, there was nothing. Just her empty car, parked off the side of the road, hidden in the trees. The engine was still warm. Her phone was on the seat.”

He stops, takes a deep breath that seems to hurt him. Juliette thinks she sees a flash of red in his eyes, for just a moment.

“I never saw her again, never heard from her. That was just a month ago. When they grabbed me, I thought, hey, maybe I’ll see them all again. But I was terrified, too. I have never been so relieved as when you let me out of that place.”

She squeezes his arm, unsure of what to say. He returns the pressure, and then stands.

“I have to go home,” he says. “Now that I know you’re okay, I need some time to decompress.”

She stands as well, comes around the table, worried. “Is that safe? They grabbed you once, what if they do it again?”

“Nah,” he says. “They didn’t grab me from home. They got me outside a bar downtown. This isn’t like with Angie and her brothers…they weren’t looking for a set. They just saw me and thought I’d make a nice addition to the collection on the spur of the moment.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine, Juliette,” he insists, giving her a strained smile. She nods, unsure of how else to convince him, and settles for walking him to the door.

“Thanks for coming to check on me,” she says. “And for the pancakes.”

The smile he gives her this time is more genuine. “Hey, anytime. Get a waffle iron and I’ll make you waffles, too. No problem.”

She can’t suppress a grin at that. “Deal. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Always,” he says blithely, and then he lopes down the driveway and into the darkened street, disappearing swiftly from her sight in a blur of motion. She could almost swear he actually dropped and started running on all fours.

Juliette goes back inside and moves to close the door. As she does, she catches sight of something…a small package sitting on the porch, just out of reach of the light. It’s wrapped in plain brown paper, and doesn’t have an address or any other markings on the outside. When she picks it up, it’s light, and she’s sure it wasn’t there when she came home.

_Could Monroe have left it there before he came in? But then…why wouldn’t he say anything?_

Somewhat warily, Juliette picks the package up and brings it inside. She’s heard horror stories about bombs and other awful things being sent through the mail, but who would send _her_ a bomb? If the Renards want her gone that badly, there are better ways to do it. Ways that look entirely accidental. This would be too conspicuous for their liking.

Still somewhat wary, she pulls out a steak knife and carefully removes the paper. The box isn’t taped shut, so she sets the knife aside and opens the lid to peer cautiously inside.

It’s a small, cheap flip-phone—the kind that usually comes with a prepaid SIM card—nested in brown paper. When she picks it up, there’s a note underneath.

It reads:

_What you did tonight was a brave thing, but dangerous._

_Keep this with you at all times. You can never have too many allies._

 

She stares at the phone, flabbergasted. Who would send this? Sebastien? Perhaps he wanted to give her a way to contact him? But then…whatever happened to just writing down your phone number?

“Strange,” she says, to no one in particular. Strange, but not necessarily unwelcome. She turns the phone on and finds it fully charged, and with full signal. The background indicates it’s exactly what she thought—a generic burner phone. She feels a weird little thrill at the thought.

Slipping it into her pocket, she heads to the dining room and gathers up her plate and teacup, depositing them in the kitchen sink. Normally she hates leaving dishes undone, but it’s already after four and she just doesn’t have it in her to do them right now. She trudges up to her bed, grateful that tomorrow is Saturday and she doesn’t have to call in sick to work.

She faceplants into the mattress in her clothes and is asleep in a matter of seconds.

When she wakes up a few hours later, it’s to a buzzing from the phone still in her pocket. Pulling it out, she squints against the sunlight coming in through her curtains and reads the text that just came through:

_Wurstner family, 263 Willowgreen Avenue_

_Wednesday, October 17, 0400_

 

She knows what to make of this even less, so Juliette resolutely turns the phone face-down and curls back into her pillow. Utterly exhausted from the previous night’s events, she falls fast asleep again within seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed this has no tagged ships. The main reason for this is that I haven't planned any out yet. If certain characters work well together, I may end up making them a ship for this fic in future chapters, so if you like something let me know in the comments!


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